


Volcano

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Camping, First Time, M/M, Sexualization of Volcanoes, Sibling Incest, coming in sleeping bags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean wakes up alone at the Lantern Motel. There's no note. The bunker, he decides, has made him soft. He's used to rolling out of bed just as Sam gets back from his run so they can have breakfast together. Dean likes having breakfast together. He scowls into his shitty grey coffee and waits.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In which volcanoes are sexy and Dean gets to do Frodo's job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Volcano

 

 

Sam's humming when he walks into the library. Dean sets down his screwdriver and takes a closer look. There's a flush across Sam's cheeks and a bounce in his step. “What's got you all excited?”

 

“Can you guess where we're going?” Sam says. _Excitedly_.

 

“Really Sam? What are you, five?”

 

“I'll give you a hint – it's shaped like this.” Sam holds up his hands, fingertips touching to make a mountain.

 

“Egypt?”

 

Sam grins at him and gathers his folded laptop. “We'll get dinner on the road, okay?”

 

“Everest?”

 

“We're taking the First Blade,” Sam calls over his shoulder, heading for his room.

 

“Big fuckin' teepee?” Dean mutters to himself. The short wave radio will have to wait.

 

 

****

 

“So let me get this straight,” Dean squints into the evening sunlight, painfully bright and too low for the driver-side sun-shield. “We needed an ancient volcano, so you picked the one with the dumbest name ever.”

 

“Bear Butte,” Sam says promptly. He loves saying it. Dean's going to start charging him. “Bear _Butte_ ,” Sam says again for good measure

 

“And we're gonna create a tiny little portal to the past, when the volcano...”

 

“Bear Butte.”

 

“... _the volcano_ was a fiery pit of Hell. And this is totally safe. 'Cause I gotta say Sam, I don't wanna be responsible for the destruction of Mount Rushmore.”

 

“Ninety eight percent safe.”

 

Dean side-eyes him. Sam's smiling like butter wouldn't melt.

 

“ _The fiery pit of Hell_ , _”_ Sam growls in a very poor imitation of Dean. _“_ Yes. It's our best chance of destroying the First Blade.” Sam sounds impatient. They _have_ been over this a few times already but if Dean knows his brother then Sam's really as excited as a little kid on Christmas Eve. “It worked for Frodo,” Sam adds.

 

Dean's pretty sure Frodo is a hobbit and he did see one of the movies once, but it's yet another book he hasn't read so he doesn't ask.

 

 

****

 

 

Dean wakes up alone at the Lantern Motel. There's no note. The bunker, he decides, has made him soft. He's used to rolling out of bed just as Sam gets back from his run so they can have breakfast together. Dean likes having breakfast together. He scowls into his shitty grey coffee and waits.

 

When Sam does breeze in he heads straight for Dean and drops a small stone into Dean's coffee with a _plop_. The stone floats.

 

“What the _fuck_ Sam?”

 

Sam produces a super-sized coffee from the paper bag he's carrying with a flourish, like he's the world's campist magician. It smells delicious. He flicks Dean a grin, and says, “Amorphous aluminum silicate, better known as pumice stone,” without missing a beat. “From a much younger volcano of course,” he adds. “Need to grind it down for the spell to work.”

 

Dean fishes out the rough little stone and turns it on his palm. There's a pestle and mortar in the trunk, so he hands Sam the car keys. After yesterday's long drive they had heard some locals pronouncing Bear Butte 'Bear _Beaut_ ' and Sam had sulked for a while. They've both had a good eight hours sleep since then, however, and now that Dean's concentrating he can smell doughnuts too. All is forgiven. Dean really is that easy. “Huh,” he says. He can't maintain the scowl.

 

 

****

 

 

There are some lovely picnic spots on the way up the mountain. Dean isn't going to say that out loud because he doesn't want to sound like a soccer mom, but he's glad that they packed lunch and that it isn't raining. “So how long ago was this a volcano?” he asks, knowing that it will set Sam off.

 

“About 65 million years ago.” Sam stops abruptly and looks around. Seemingly satisfied, he unclips his backpack and perches himself on a convenient rock. “Want to stop for lunch?” he asks, already searching through the bag for food.

 

Dean settles himself on an adjacent almost-as-good rock. “That doesn't sound very accurate,” he says. “Wasn't there some big volcano in the 80's? We would've known the exact date and time of the eruption.”

 

Sam shrugs. “Don't need it,” he says through a mouthful of tuna sandwich. Then he tilts his head in consideration, “Or the spell will find the right time for us. I think that's how it works.”

 

“You _think_?” Dean's really asking for it now. But hey, it's a beautiful day and they're picnicking on the side of a fucking mountain like something out of Heidi. The only thing that could add to the experience in Dean's estimation would be that dorky enthusiasm Sam gets whenever he's geeking out and Dean actually pays attention and listens. Of course, Dean's not about to say that out loud either.

 

“Well,” Sam squints at his sandwich like it maybe he made notes on it that will help him to remember. “According to Akan mythology, our ancestors live on, deep within the earth, and we can call to them...” 

 

 

****

 

 

An hour later, Dean is beginning to regret having given Sam the opening. It's not that he's bored: he would be happy for Sam to go on all day; the chatter isn't the problem. Dean can almost imagine Sam glowing with it. He wonders what colour an aura-of-geek would be. Maybe orange. The air up the mountain is so fresh that it's making Dean giddy. Between the mountain air and Sam's glowing trick Dean might need to sit down again soon.

 

Sam has moved on from African religion to the technicalities of volcanoes. It's mostly stuff that Dean already knows; that _everybody_ knows. It's the  words Sam keeps on using that are the problem, coupled with Dean's incurably dirty mind. Words like 'hot' and 'heat' and 'pressure' and 'rising' and 'building up' and, best of all, 'erupting'.

 

If Sam says 'erupt' one more time then Dean is going to bite his tongue in half. Or, you know, _erupt_.

 

“Active volcanoes just spew gas most of the time,” Sam confides as he passes Dean again.

 

Dean allows him to take the lead for a while, and in doing so discovers the view from the back all over again. He wishes that Sam would wear tighter jeans and quit trying to hide his ass under a bushel.

 

“There can be copious amounts of effluence,” Sam continues, like he's Dean's ninth grade science teacher. “When the volcano gets really hot it weeps a constant stream of emissions. They cool really quickly in the air and kind of gush down the sides. Fascinating to watch.”

 

 _Always in the gutter_ , Dean reprimands himself but it doesn't do any good.

 

“It can go on for decades,” Sam's voice is fainter coming from up front, but still clear enough to catch every word. And Dean strains to hear him, he can't help it. “Years and years of pressure building up before an eruption; before the molten lava finally comes shooting up and out.”

 

Dean knows he's going back to Hell but he kind of wishes he could record this for personal use while he's waiting for the hounds.

 

 

****

 

 

“Do I want to know?”

 

Sam has pulled a large zip-lock plastic bag from his backpack. Inside is a decapitated chicken, complete with feathers. _Always with the dead chickens_ , Dean thinks. Sam doesn't even look up.

 

Dean's only official part in this ritual is the bit where he casts away the Blade, but Sam asked him to make the fire too, and that kept his focus for a while.

 

While he's waiting Dean thinks about the Blade, that he should probably feel some kind of strong emotion towards the thing. Anger maybe. Hatred even, but there's no lingering attachment. He hefts the weight of it in his hand and that does get Sam's attention for a moment. “What?” He glares at Sam until Sam goes back to sprinkling his powdered pumice. Dean's totally over the demon Knight of Hell thing. Since the Mark has gone, all he can manage to feel towards the Blade is a kind of tarnished humour that the fucking Donkey Jawbone of Doom has caused so much trouble. The years tick by and the shit just gets weirder.

 

Sam lays the dead chicken, seasoned with ground pumice, on top of the little fire. He holds his hands out palm down and begins to chant.

 

One moment there is a chicken on a little campfire. The next moment there's a blast of heat from the bowels of the Earth, so strong that it bowls them both over onto their asses. Dean is the first to recover and his paper-to-trash-can aim doesn't fail him this time. The First Blade drops neatly into the hole where the chicken-fire had been a moment before, and spins down into oblivion.

 

Dean thinks, _Good riddance_ , and then, _Oh fuck no!_ because there's a terrible moment when Sam seems to be stepping into the lava pit after the Blade. It turns out that Sam is just delivering a well aimed kick, however (and giving Dean a heart attack). The hole disappears with a swipe of his boot and all that's left are smouldering sticks, a partially roasted chicken and the stench of burnt feathers.

 

He gives Dean a shaky smile. “That actually went pretty well,” he says.

 

Dean's as surprised as Sam sounds.

 

 

****

 

 

“General George Custer camped here,” Sam says, as Dean worms his way into their tiny two man tent, head first and already wrapped in his sleeping bag.

 

“Who?”

 

Sam sets about sliding in feet first. Sleeping top to tail is the only acceptable set up in such a small space. It gives the illusion of separation. “Battle of the Little Bighorn? Custer's Last Stand?"

 

“Oh him.” Dean has seen that movie a thousand times. Cowboys are cool. Sam's thigh is pushed up against Dean's hip. It's impossible not to touch at this proximity. They pretend not to notice.

 

There are the small sounds of nature settling with dusk outside the tent. They lie still and steadfastly ignore the various points where their bodies are in contact through the sleeping bags.

 

“You brought the coffee, right?” Dean already knows the answer but he's feeling fidgety. It's only bedtime for eight year olds but there's not much else to do on a dark mountainside.

 

“Don't worry Sundance, you'll get your caffeine fix.”

 

 

****

 

 

Predictably, Dean wakes up after two hours or so of sleep. If they'd been in a motel then he would have knocked one out in the bathroom before bed. All that talk of seismic activity has gotten right under his skin and seeped into his dreams. His cock is an aching hard line, clearly defined through the sleeping bag. It's begging to be touched, throbbing, twitching and practically straining for Dean's right hand.

 

Carefully, and as naturally as possible, Dean rolls onto his side so that he's facing away from Sam. He listens for a whole minute but Sam's breathing doesn't change. It's shallow, hardly noticeable really, and if he's not genuinely sleeping then he's a hell of an actor.

 

Getting both shoulders inside the sleeping bag is lovely and warm. Dean pushes his shorts to mid-thigh, cups his balls with his left hand and squeezes his cock with the right. It's so fucking good and Dean's not going to be long about this at all, except that when he starts to jerk himself in earnest he encounters a problem: Dean's right arm, his jerking off arm, is trapped beneath his body. He can't get a satisfactory stroke without making his whole body quake, and that's bound to wake up Sam.

 

He tries switching hands and sincerely regrets never having learnt to do it the other way around. He switches back. The points of Sam pressing against him are like firebrands. Sam's wrist brushes Dean's ass. Sam's leg runs the length of Dean's back and the ball of Dean's right foot rests lightly against Sam's shoulder.

 

Dean makes himself go slow, barely moving at all. His mind drifts back to Sam lecturing about volcanoes in his dream. The details are hazy but the fuzzy soup of arousal still holds him captive. _'Decades of pressure'_ , he imagines Sam saying, _'All that lava pushing up to the surface'._

 

There's a pulse of wetness at the tip of Dean's cock and then another when he thinks about Sam saying, _'Weeping a constant stream of emissions'._

 

He's so hot. He has to go slow but he's so hot and so ready to erupt. He's going to erupt, soon, soon. The strain of going slow makes his body tremble, _like the Earth trembling,_ he thinks, and he's close, so close. 

 

“ _Jesus._ ” It's Sam. He's turning, all the way round so that they're pointing the same way. Then he's touching Dean, pulling his shoulders and rolling Dean onto his back. Dean keeps his eyes screwed shut because this is really awkward. 

 

Dean tries to draw his knees up against his chest but Sam won't let him. In fact, Sam is climbing on top of him, so Dean opens his eyes in horror.

 

“It was like an eight on the Richter Scale,” Sam says and kisses Dean square on the lips. Dean's lips part in shock and Sam takes it as an invitation. His tongue is hot and insistent and Dean wants it so badly, always has, that he just opens up and lets Sam kiss him, deeply and way too confidently.

 

When he feels Sam's cock, hard and nudging against his own through two layers of sleeping bag, Dean has to turn his face away and gasp for breath. He's usually the master of multitasking in the bedroom but there's no way he's going to be able to do anything else while he can feel the press of Sam's cock rubbing off against him.

 

Sam pushes his face against Dean's neck instead and holds Dean's hips steady, the better to thrust against him. “Come on Dean,” he says into Dean's skin. It tickles and shivers and Dean arches into his brother with a moan. “That's right. Going to make you erupt like a volcano, you want that?”

 

 _Oh fuck_ , Dean really wants that. Sam must have some freaky mind-reading power but Dean doesn't care. He's in full belly-up surrender and Sam can have whatever he wants; everything.

 

“Come on Dean, give it to me.” Sam thrusts and circles his hips, almost right, not quite enough. “Wanna make all that hot lava shoot out of your little crater,” and Dean feels a tiny scratch of fingernail through the sleeping bag material, right exactly over his slit, and he's coming, rocking up against Sam and groaning with the force of it. Sam tightens against him and Dean's keenly aware of Sam's orgasm; can feel Sam's cock pulse against his belly, even through the jumbled haze of his poor blown-apart mind.

 

 

****

 

 

They're lying side by side. _No more top to tail!_ Dean thinks, wildly. He's been trying to think of something to say for two minutes. It feels like years. “How did you know?” he asks, and his voice sounds like he's been singing the blues and smoking fifty a day, so he clears his throat.

 

“You talk in your sleep,” Sam tells him smugly, the asshole. “Sometimes,” he amends. “Ever since Hell.”

 

There's a long silence. It's not exactly a comfortable silence, and there are a few wild animal noises in the distance, but it's not exactly uncomfortable either.

 

Sam turns towards Dean and rests his chin against Dean's shoulder. “Do you know about underwater volcanoes?” he asks innocently.

 

Dean breathes in deep through his nose and lets his eyes fall closed. Then he huffs a laugh. “You gonna fill me in geek boy?”

 

“Some of the most beautiful and magnificent islands start off that way.”

 

“That right?” Dean worms his arm under Sam's neck and pulls him in close against his side.

 

“Just think Dean,” Sam plants a kiss against his neck and nips at his earlobe before continuing. “All that hot lava shooting up and out under the water.”

 

There's a pause and Dean waits. If Sam wants to go again then they'll go again. Dean needs about thirty more seconds of volcanic studies delivered in Sam's voice directly in his left ear and he'll be right back in the game.

 

“Do you think we'll both fit in the bath?”

 

“Shut up Sam.”

 

This time Dean's on top, taking back what he gave away.

And this time the sleeping bags have to go.

Maybe they can zip them together.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm seriously out of practice so be gentle.
> 
> Has anyone else seen The Dinosaur Train? It's a Canadian children's programme and they did this episode about volcanoes and, well, my mind is just as deep in the gutter as Dean's I guess.


End file.
